


That Which We Call A Rose

by LavenderProse



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Blink And You Miss It Mention of Child Abuse, Dating, Endearments, Fluff, Just 10k words of tooth rotting fluff tbh, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Meet-Cute, Nicknames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderProse/pseuds/LavenderProse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's still looking through Steve Rogers' Facebook pictures when Natasha comes home, drops her own gym bag onto the couch and comes into the kitchen.<br/>"Who's that?" she asks, lifting a bottle of spring water to her lips.<br/>"Just some guy I met at the gym," Bucky mumbles.<br/>"Just some guy?"<br/>"Yeah, y'know...you just...sometimes you meet people..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Which We Call A Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty straight forward for once, everything more or less covered on the tin. Slightly spoilery warning: The mention of child abuse comes in about three forths of the way through and has to do with a hazy memory that Bucky has of a male authority figure in his life attempting to throw a beer bottle at his head, and is hopefully breif enough that it will not bother anyone.
> 
> This was inspired by a Buzzfeed video titled "7 things you call the person you're dating" or something very similar. I went a little further and have provided the TEN things Bucky called Steve while they were dating. Also, a TFLN post that said "I saved him in my phone as 'MURICA. I think it's safe to say I'm not exactly taking him seriously." You'll see where that comes in.
> 
> Also: This fic has nothing to do with Gather ye Rosebuds. I know they both have rose in the title, but this fic could not have LESS to do with Gather ye Rosebuds.

Going to the gym is always a bit of a chore, and that was before he had a giant metal prosthetic that guaranteed he stood out like a sore thumb no matter the composition of the crowd he was standing in. Now that he's back from the war, he feels more alienated than ever walking into the gym. It's local and small and not part of a chain, but it still has its fair share of lunks and assholes—the kind that'll make fun of some poor kid who's trying to get in shape tripping on the treadmill or call overweight women in the pool whales. He's never found gyms to be a pleasant atmosphere, but he's been given a strict regimen to follow by his physical therapists—two of them, one assigned to him at the veteran's hospital and the other part of the team of scientists at StarkTech who are using him as a guinea pig for their state-of-the-art prosthetics. The regimen is meant to ensure that he's building and maintaining enough muscle mass to carry the weight of the prosthetic without undue stress on his back and what remains of his shoulder.

He's been offered access to the physical therapy gym at the hospital, but there's something sad about that place. It's mostly veterans trying to regain use of their limbs or learn to function without them, and the empathy that Bucky feels for them is almost too much some days. He'd rather brave the lunks.

The regimen is flexible, so long as he's doing so many of such-and-such a movement per hour three times a week. He's developed a routine that involves fifty pull-ups and fifty dips (a move on the parallel bars where he lifts himself up and then lowers himself until his arms are parallel to the floor) then overhead bench presses, five sets of five reps. After that, he cools down with half an hour of leisurely laps across the pool. It's a routine that gets him just tired enough to sleep through the night once he gets home and eats something, which is an added bonus. Especially for someone who has spent more sleepless nights sitting on the sofa and clutching his roommate's throwpillows like a shield than he cares to admit.

His routine takes an hour and a half, almost on the dot, every night. He starts arriving two hours before closing time, mostly because it just works out that way with his work schedule but also because very few people show up between eight and ten o'clock at night. That, and he doesn't want to stay right up until closing time, because that's a dick move.

He's been coming to the gym for about four months now, has had his prosthetic for about six and has been home for almost a year. In that almost-a-year, he has been slowly digging the man he once was out of the rubble of war inside his brain. The guy down at the VA, Wilson, says that it takes time, that he can't reasonably expect himself to be the same after what he's seen and done, and Bucky knows that, but…he also knows that he _liked_ himself back then. He's not too humble to say that he knows he was a charming guy, and a guy who got a genuine joy out of life besides. Nowadays, Bucky's just glad to be alive—and he's _glad_ he's glad to be alive, because he's seen the alternative, the empty-eyed faces that go along with it, and thanks whoever is listening that what he saw didn't make him want to stop living altogether. But it's not the same. Wanting to live and enjoying life are two very different things.

"Hey, buddy. You okay?"

Without realizing it, he's been sitting on the bench in the locker room, clutching his phone. He was in the middle of queuing up some music, he thinks, but he must have gotten lost in his own thoughts for a second there. He glances at the black screen of his phone, then up at the man who prompted him. He's blond and blue-eyed and built like a brick wall, looks like he's carved out of marble, with wide shoulders and a slim waist and a pair of tits on him bigger than some underwear models. Bucky's first impression is _lunk_ , and the T-shirt the guy pulls on—tight, to the point where his peaked nipples can be seen through the shirt—only seems to lend truth to the assumption.

"Yeah," Bucky says finally, clearing his throat. "I, um…sorry, I got inside my own head for a minute there. Sorry if I scared you." He's been told that his face, when he takes little daytrips to Mars like that, can be misconstrued as something along the lines of _deeply upset_ or, to use Natasha's phrasing, _homicidal_.

"No, you're fine," the guy says. He Velcroes one of those armbands that holds a phone to his enormous bicep. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay. I've seen a lot of guys looking like you do after they come back from overseas, you know?"

"Oh," Bucky says. That's another explanation for the build of this other guy. Fellow ex-military. It's not hard to imagine this guy in dress blues. There is something very patriotic about him. He seems like the kind of guy who might cry when he hears the national anthem. "Yeah. I know."

For a moment, the guy focuses all of his attention on tying his shoes, then straightens up and slowly says, "How many tours?"

Bucky sighs, rubs the back of his neck. "You from the service too?"

Blond guy shrugs, gives a sheepish smile. "My two best friends are, but me, no. Not for lack of trying, but…I wasn't physically fit for the military."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, gives the guy a pointed up-and-down. "I'm sure you can't blame me if I say that's hard for me to believe."

He grins. "Yeah, I know. But, ah, funny thing about a heart murmur? You can't really look at someone and see it. Combine that with childhood asthma, color blindness and partial deafness," here, he taps a tiny wire behind his ear, and Bucky realizes he's wearing a hearing aid, "I guess I'm a bit of a mess. But I shot up like a weed in junior year of high school, alluva sudden and all at once, and being short and skinny is one thing because that can be kinda cute, but…six-foot-two and 120 pounds? My ma said that just looking at me made her hurt. So I bulked up."

"How'd you know I was ex-military by just looking at me?"

"The prosthetic," Steve says, gesturing. "I, uh, I work for StarkTech. In the graphic design department, but. I know about the project because I, ah, rendered all the graphics for the presentations. But I know that only ten people have them right now, and they're all veterans."

It's a reasonable enough explanation. The StarkTech prosthetics are not as top secret as they were when Bucky first had his surgically connected—and _that_ was a drag, having to wear hoodies and gloves in the middle of summer to avoid revealing StarkTech's design.

"I see," Bucky says. "Um, two and a half tours. To answer your question. I joined up when I turned eighteen and I was discharged last year."

"Thank you for your service," he says softly, and in a way that says he genuinely _means_ it, not like the nurses at the VA hospital, saying it like they thought they were obligated. This guy seems like the very definition of genuine. Then he holds out his hand and says, "Steve Rogers," which just increases the All-American vibe. Bucky is starting to wonder if this guy's BO smells like apple pie.

"Bucky Barnes," he responds, shaking. Steve's hand is big, warm and dry, calloused. Then, after thinking for a moment, adds, "James Barnes, officially, but I'm called Bucky."

"Nice to meet you, Bucky," he says, pops a pair of earbuds into his ears and heads out. Bucky allows himself five more seconds of staring at the blank screen of his phone, processing the encounter, before he finishes what he was doing before his impromptu trip to La-La Land.

He monitors Steve's presence on the edges of his vision for the first fifteen minutes he's on the gym floor, but Steve seems to be minding his own business, and so Bucky does too. He does his pull ups, his dips, his lifts, and finally his laps. Halfway through his wind down in the pool, Steve goes by on his way out of the locker room. With his gym bag slung over his shoulder and now wearing jeans and a hooded jacket over a tee, he smiles and says, "Bye," and Bucky holds onto the pool wall as he watches Steve Rogers walk out of the gym.

He's got a great ass, that's for sure.

Later, he finds himself doing his bimonthly Facebook surf. Ostensibly, it's to check up on people he knew in high school, but the truth is that Natasha is the only person he went to high school with that he cares about, and it's more to do with assuring himself that there are still people who have it worse than him. Once he's satisfied that this is still true—some girl he had a history class with once is going into rehab for the third time in as many years—he finds himself typing 'Steve Rogers' into the search bar. There are roughly four million Steve Rogers in the world, apparently, but the Steve Rogers he met at the gym is the fourth or fifth result. It would be hard to miss that heroic jawline popping out at you from a list of Facebook search results.

His account is public, which could mean a number of things; either someone has not told him that he's neglected to put his account on private, or he just doesn't know he has to. Either way, there's no reason to put it on private. Steve Rogers seems just as wholesome as his red, white and blue apple pie appearance would suggest. He is twenty-nine (Turning thirty on July fourth, _Christ,_ Bucky was just joking about the Americana thing) and a graduate of NYU.

His profile picture is a snapshot of him sitting in a dimly-lit restaurant or bar somewhere, leaning on a dark wood table with a soft, natural smile on his face. If it weren't for the rather shoddy quality of the picture itself, it could honestly be straight out of a magazine. The guy's that photogenic.

Which, of course, leads him through Steve Roger's pictures.

He's still looking through them when Natasha comes home, drops her own gym bag onto the couch and comes into the kitchen. Bucky glances at her for long enough to assess her condition, because it's habit. She still has a faint sheen of sweat on her from rehearsal. She premiers as a principal for the first time in a little over two weeks, dancing The Firebird, and rehearsals for it have been heating up.

"Who's that?" she asks, lifting a bottle of spring water—Natasha, although not lending herself entirely to the fussy stereotype surrounding dancers, does have one quirk in the form of her refusal to drink tap water—to her lips.

"Just some guy I met at the gym," Bucky mumbles, glancing back at the picture he landed on right before Natasha came in the door. Steve—a younger, thinner Steve—sitting on a floral couch next to an older woman. He's golden blond and she's steely-strawberry but they share cheekbones and eyes and noses and it's so obvious she's his mother, even without the caption: _Happy Mother's Day, mom. Sometimes I still can't believe that you're gone. You were my only support for a long time and I wouldn't be the person I am today without you._

Bucky's chest aches for the guy.

"Just some guy?"

"Yeah, y'know…you just…sometimes you meet people. Jesus, get off my back."

Natasha presses the cold bottom of her water bottle against the nape of his neck. In the ensuing tussle, he accidentally exits out of the tab. It's probably for the best, anyway. He's heard that Facebook stalking is frowned upon in most societies.

* * *

He continues seeing Steve over the next few weeks. They never exchange more than a few words, but somehow they get around to exchanging numbers—not that Bucky really thinks anything will come of it. He's exchanged numbers with plenty of people, only to delete them several months later when he finds the number in his contacts and has to ask himself _who is that again?_

He saves Steve in his contacts as 'Captain America'. Suffice it to say, he's not taking him very seriously.

Roughly three weeks after the first encounter and a few days after exchanging numbers, Bucky walks into the locker room after his swim and Steve is still in there, reading a book and _definitely_ not trying to hide the fact that he was waiting up. When Bucky walks into the locker room, he gives him a few minutes to wash the chlorine off and make himself modest, eyes respectfully turned down to the book even though Bucky would have gone home to shower if he had a problem revealing himself—and he did, once upon a time, but there are lots of people who have scars much worse than those around his shoulder, and he got over it quickly.

When Bucky has pulled his underwear on and shucked his towel, Steve sets his book down and carefully says, "So, um…I know that we don't know each other. But, um, I was wondering if you liked pizza?"

Bucky pauses, then chuckles, "Actually?"

Steve looks sheepish. "You don't, do you? Wow, that wasn't supposed to be the part where I stuck my foot in my mouth. I never even considered that you might actually not like pizza. I thought everyone liked pizza."

"Well, uh…I might not like pizza, but I've never met a taco that I couldn't eat." He pulls on a tee and buttons his pants. "They make them really good at this little place called Rojo y Azul."

"Red and Blue?"

"Yeah, I'm not really sure why it's called that. Anyway, the place is run by these two ladies and their daughter. It's on Division. Wanna get lunch, say…noon on Saturday?"

Steve doesn't respond for a long moment, but then something seems to jerk him out of whatever daydream he descended into. He nods, says, "Yeah, absolutely. Yeah, that definitely works for me."

"Alright," Bucky says, with a small smile. He swings his gym back onto his shoulder and waves at Steve. "See you Saturday."

As he's walking out of the gym, he stops below the fluorescents in the breezeway to send off a snapchat of his face, damp hair slicked back and mouth quirked, eyebrow raised. _Got a date with Captain America_.

Natasha's response is almost immediate. A picture of Liho laying destruction into one of Bucky's loafers. _Wahoo_.

Bucky sighs and rolls his eyes, wonders if the loafers will even be worth salvaging by the time he gets home.

* * *

"So, are you going out with Captain America this weekend?" Natasha asks, flipping idly through a magazine on their couch. She has a way of ambushing Bucky with these things approximately 2.5 seconds after he's woken up. To add insult to injury, Clint is sitting next to her on the couch, showering affection on Liho and occasionally tapping something in the magazine to bring Natasha's attention to it. Bucky knows that his life is going downhill if Clint Barton of all the people has managed to get dressed and out his door before Bucky even woke up.

"Who's that?" Clint grunts.

"A guy Bucky met at the gym." She looks over Clint's head at Bucky. "Bucky and him have been seeing a lot of each other."

Bucky rolls his eyes. It's true that he and Steve have been going out together on a pretty consistent basis since the taco date earlier in the month, but it's nothing near being a _thing_ , and all of the quote-unquote _dates_ have been happening on entirely neutral ground. The taco place—but only once, because it turns out Steve's Irish blood runs deep and he can't handle anything much spicier than cinnamon—and the gym and several coffee shops in between. The closest thing to personal either of them got was the afternoon they met up during Steve's lunch break and had sandwiches at a shop that lives in the shadow of Stark Tower, where Steve works.

He has not seen the inside of Steve's apartment and Steve has _certainly_ not seen the inside of Bucky's. Bucky would need about a month of warning for that to happen, not only because he would more or less have to make arrangements for Nat to be out of the damned _country_ with how in his business she can be.

She means well, but sometimes he wants to gently smother her with a pillow so she knows what it's like to live with her at times.

Clint frowns and says, "I thought that guy was The Human Torch because he accidentally ordered the hottest thing on the menu at Rojo y Azul on your first date?"

"Nah, if you saw him, you'd call him Captain America too," Bucky says, crossing the room to sit in the recliner adjacent to the couch. "The guy is the walking definition of wholesome." He sips his orange juice and waits for the sugar to set into his system, helping him to feel a bit more alive before he says, "To answer your question, yes. We're going out to Coney Island this weekend. Also, his actual name is Steve. You could call him that."

Nat flaps a hand. "I'm never gonna remember that."

Bucky rolls his eyes, because they both know Nat will—her mind is like a steel trap—but she will continue calling him Captain America or The Human Torch or whatever bizarre moniker she comes up with until she can meet him in person and pass judgment. And even after that, if she doesn't like him.

To be honest, though, Bucky can't imagine Natasha disliking Steve. Even with the very old-timey Golden Boy thing he has going on, Steve is one of the most genuinely nice people Bucky has met in a long time, and it's been no chore hanging out with him for the last few weeks. Even if things don't work out romantically, Bucky thinks they could definitely be good friends.

"But are Captain America and The Human Torch the same person, though?" Clint asks, letting Liho nibble on his knuckle like her teeth _aren't_ as pointy as needles.

"Yeah," Bucky grunts.

"Are The Human Torch and Red Skull the same person?"

"No, ew. Oh my God no, ew." Bucky blanches, actually sticks his tongue out because he can't even believe he went on a date with that particular guy.

"We called that guy Red Skull because his face got super red every time he went on an anti-Semitic rant. He went on four in a single date, if you were wondering."

" _Nat_."

"What? He did."

* * *

Luna Park opens in the last days of March but the tourism season really doesn't get started until May. In early April, it's still too cold on most days for the usual suspects—little families from Ohio, school groups on end-of-the-year outings—and some of the food stands haven't opened yet. Still, it's a nice place to be, and it isn't freezing out. Bucky wears a light jacket and Steve wears a sweatshirt, and it's more than enough. Bucky isn't crazy about the adrenalin-chasing rides—spending multiple years in an active warzone will do that to a person—but neither is Steve—having a heart murmur will do that to a person—so they only buy a handful of tickets and go on the rides labeled 'Mild Thrill'.

This includes going on the carousel. For old times' sake, Steve says, coaxing Bucky into one of the stationary carriages because neither of them is certain they wouldn't break a horse. Bucky laughs and goes along with it, even though he feels a bit ridiculous, a grown man surrounded by children on the quintessential children's carnival ride. Steve drapes an arm over his shoulder, warm and solid, and Bucky relaxes into it.

After the carousel, they walk along the fairway. Steve keeps his hand tucked in Bucky's back pocket. It might be a possessive gesture, but Bucky doesn't think it's like that. Steve's body language isn't right for it; he's open, looking around, smiling at people who pass. It's probably just a convenient place to put his hand.

He even takes his hand out completely, unquestioning when Bucky pulls abruptly away upon sighting a familiar face heading in their direction.

Alexander Pierce is easily one of Bucky's least favorite people, which is heavily ironic considering he is the man on whom Bucky relies for employment. Joining the army the moment you turn eighteen doesn't exactly give a person a lot of opportunities to build marketable skills aside from _run and don't get shot at_ , which in the army serves a person rather well. Bucky also has certain other skills that are heavily marketable exclusively to the army— _shooting somebody from half a mile away_ and _knowing the Farsi words for 'help', 'run' and 'bomb'_ come to mind—but none of them help him on the stateside job market. With only one arm once the army finally spat him out, there weren't a lot of people willing to hire him. Turns out, it only takes one hand to make phone calls. Bucky doesn't really enjoy being a telemarketer, and Pierce is a slimy old man with wandering eyes and hands—but also, strangely enough, very loud and negative opinions about "gays"—but Bucky doesn't know where he would get another job, so he stays.

And sucks up to Pierce, because it's what optionless fucks like himself do.

"Mr. Pierce," he says, as amicably as he can manage, putting a safe distance between himself and Steve.

"James," he greets. He does not call him Bucky. Bucky's friends call him Bucky. "I saw you coming up the fairway, thought I'd say hi. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Oh yeah. Just…yeah. Gorgeous. You here with your…kids?" Pierce is pretty old to have kids still interested in going to Coney Island, but one can never really know for certain with men.

Pierce smiles. It's fake, and it's obvious it's fake, but Bucky long ago stopped searching for genuineness on that face. "And my grandkids."

"Ah, okay."

"And you are?" Pierce asks, turning to Steve. There's something dangerous in his eye. Bucky wonders how much he saw, if he noticed them before Bucky noticed him.

"This is my…" Bucky searches for a word. Saying boyfriend would be bad for so many reasons, not the least of which are one, the deeply homophobic man to which he is speaking and two, the fact that he really isn't sure _what_ Steve is. They see each other. Bucky isn't even sure if he should call Steve his _friend_ , because really—they've only known each other a few months. He flops his lips for a second, noiseless, before settling on, "Uh, Steve. This is Steve."

Steve smiles—a smaller, more guarded one than usual—and shakes Pierce's hand.

"Nice to meet you," Pierce says. "Are the two of you here with girlfriends?"

"Um…we…" Bucky glances at Steve, rubs the back of his neck. "We're…"

"We both grew up in the area," Steve says. "Wanted to take a loop around for old time's sake. Figured we'd have a better time if it was just the two of us, nobody else to drag their feet and complain about being tired."

"Adrenaline junkies, is it?"

"Something like that," Bucky chuckles. He can certainly feel the adrenalin in his veins.

They are saved by a girl appearing around the corner on the fairway, strawberry blond and twelvish and pouting. She calls, "Grandpa! Mom said to ask you to walk me and Alicia to the Cyclone!"

Pierce smiles apologetically, looks over his shoulder. "In a minute, Lindsay!"

"Well, we won't keep you," Bucky says, and _hauls ass_ away from that man and that situation. It seems to have sucked the joy out of the entire day though, because from that point on Bucky is concerned that his boss is going to pop out from behind every corner and trying to keep the spirit of a date is hard when one of the people on the date is afraid to touch the other. Finally, he sighs, frustrated with himself and the situation and Alexander fuckin' Pierce, and says, "Hey, sorry. Do you just wanna…do you wanna leave? I'd understand. I kind of just threw this entire thing into the garbage."

"No, it's fine. I kind of…got a weird vibe from that guy too. I understand. He someone you work with?"

"My boss," Bucky sighs. "And he's…uncomfortably opinionated about other's sexualities."

"Oh. I'm sorry, that's…a really bad situation to be in."

"Yeah, but it's the only job I have."

Steve sighs and his face is conflicted—halfway between some meaningless platitude and the knowledge of how useless that would be. Bucky has been in that situation before. Wanting to do something for someone, but not knowing what or how or if he's allowed. What he eventually ends up doing is bobbing his head in the direction of the parking lot. "C'mon, let's get outta here. I'm sure there are plenty of things to do in this city on a Saturday afternoon that don't come with the risk of running into homophobic bosses."

They end up seeing a movie; a dollar theatre show of a flick that came out over Christmas. It's a musical, and Bucky isn't really into those kinds of things, but Steve seems to enjoy it, and they share a bag of popcorn. He's certainly been on worse dates. Much worse.

"That was good," Steve says, one hand in his pocket and the other holding the almost-empty bag of popcorn. "Meryl Streep is an amazing actress, don't you think?"

"I don't think there's a person alive who thinks she isn't," Bucky says. "But my favorite part was the two princes."

Steve frowns for a moment, then chuckles lowly. "Oh, yeah. That was funny." Abruptly, he stops and reaches out his hand, wraps it around Bucky's wrist. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah," Bucky replies, allowing himself to be drawn back. Steve's thumb is gentle on his pulse. "What's up?"

"Um…I guess…and you don't have to answer, it's fine, but…I wanted to ask if, uh. Is it too soon to put a name to. What we are?"

Buck sighs and stares down at their hands, turns his palm into Steve's. "Um…maybe. Is that okay? It's just…I'm…I've had a really bad run of it, dating-wise, and I'm trying to be more careful with myself. Is that…?"

"Yeah, that's completely fine. I just want you to be comfortable, and you seemed…uncomfortable earlier."

"That had way more to do with my boss than you," Bucky chuckles. He tilts his head up and presses his lips to Steve's, smiles and pulls back an inch or so. "Mmm. I do like that, though."  He goes back in for another, and he feels Steve's responding smile, feels the popcorn bag against the small of his back as Steve wraps his other arm loose around him. Something about Steve makes him feel protected, safe in a way he hasn't in a long time.

It's a very good feeling.

* * *

One morning, Bucky wakes up to a snapchat from Natasha, which in and of itself is weird because he can hear her clattering around in the kitchen. Usually, she can bring herself to traverse the twenty feet between her bed or the couch to Bucky's current location to tell him or show him something in person.

It's eight hours old, sent around midnight. He opens it up. At first, he doesn't understand—it's just Natasha's face, hair all piled atop her head, eyebrow raised. Then he turns up the volume and gets the message she was actually trying to send.

Bang _._ Bang _._

_"Oh fuck—gimme more—"_

_"Yeah, you like that? What a thirsty fucking whore—"_

_"Oh my God, oh my_ God _—"_

Immediately, Bucky rolls over and shakes Steve awake. He gives protest, grunts and pulls a pillow over his head. From underneath the down, he grumbles, "What time is it?"

"Eight."

"Too early. Sleeping."

"Um. You remember last night, right?"

Steve goes still for a moment, then peeks out from under the pillow. "Yeah. I wasn't that drunk. I didn't think you were either."

"Yeah. I mean, no. I wasn't. I remember, too."

A goofy smile. "What's the problem, then?"

"Um…" Bucky sighs, rubs his eyebrow. "I, uh…Natasha…heard us. Last night. And also recorded us through the wall. She sent me a snapchat. We were being really loud. Um…" He picks out a feather poking through the case of the down pillow still covering half of Steve's face. "Apparently, I called you a whore? And I'm…super sorry about that?"

Steve furrows his brows. "Why?"

"Um."

"We were having sex," Steve says slowly. "People say things like that during sex, sometimes. I know you don't actually think I'm a whore. I'm fine with it; I'd've told you if I wasn't."

"You sure?" Bucky murmurs. He pulls the pillow away and drapes one arm over Steve's broad chest, rests his chin there. The other hand smoothes down Steve's stomach, over his hip, over his thigh. He wraps his hand around the inside of Steve's leg, thumb nestled in the naked join of thigh and hip. Steve makes a happy noise and opens his legs, welcoming.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Steve murmurs. He arches his neck to kiss Bucky softly. Bucky kisses back, drops gentle, noiseless kisses onto his cheek and neck, inhales deeply to stretch out his back muscles and presses his cheek against Steve's chest. Under the blanket, he watches his hand move slowly—lazy, languid—between Steve's parted legs. Every time Steve gives a low, rumbled moan, Bucky kisses his chest.

It's a good morning.

* * *

Bucky realizes halfway to work that he forgot his phone charging on the kitchen counter. Its location on the kitchen counter is in fact the reason for his forgetfulness; usually, he charges it on his nightstand, but his charger broke over the weekend, so he's been using Nat's until he can get himself a new one. Of course, there's a cell phone-specific version of Murphy's Law that says something like _when you don't have your phone, that's when everyone tries to call you_ , so it's no surprise that he comes in the door and Natasha is already tossing his phone at him saying, "Your boyfriend's been texting you."

"Wow," Bucky grunts, going immediately into his text messages (From Steve: _Can I see you tonight?, I'll bring dinner., Bucky?_ ) and shooting off a text explaining the situation. "We should call a priest, have an exorcism."

Natasha frowns at him around a spoonful of yoghurt. "What?"

"That's what people do when they get calls from people who don't exist, right?"

"Oh my God," Natasha sighs, dropping her Activia—which Bucky teases her about eating and which he will never admit to sneaking—onto the counter. "Steve. Steve is your boyfriend."

"No he's not. We haven't talked about what we are. We're just seeing each other." He pockets his phone and joins her in the kitchen, opening the fridge and leaning down. "He's bringing dinner when he comes over, by the way. Would you prefer Thai or…?"

"Thai's fine," Natasha snaps, "don't change the subject. What kind of box have you locked yourself in that you can't see outside if it, huh? You've been _seeing each other_ for months. He sleeps over four nights a week. You guys are going to _his best friend's wedding_ together in a month."

" _So_? It's not exactly unheard of for someone to bring a person they're just casually dating to a wedding."

" _Up north_. It's a two-hour drive away. To go to the wedding of a man who Steve refers to as _the brother I never had_. For an orphan, that's a lot like meeting the parents, don't you think?"

Bucky sighs, tosses his head in irritation and closes the fridge without taking anything out. "I don't know what to tell you, Nat. We're dating, but neither of us is…Look. I'm not exactly the poster child for healthy relationships, okay? Most of my relationships since high school can probably be filed under 'major fuckups' and at this point, I'm not so sure it's not because of me. I mean, for some reason…sleazy guy after sleazy guy is attracted to me. After awhile, you start to wonder which of the variables is the problem—them, or you."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "You think Steve, the actual human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy, is secretly a slimeball?"

"No, I'm saying…what if this is a fluke, and he's going to wake up one morning and realize that I'm not…what he thinks I am?" He huffs and shuffles into the living room, folds himself onto the sofa with his head against the back, staring at the ceiling. "I'm the one who's been dragging my feet, okay? Because if he's going to do that, I'd rather it happen now, when we haven't put a name to what we are yet, than…four years from now, when I'm James Rogers and we've just bought our first house, or some shit, and he realizes I'm…an ex-foster kid with one arm and a fucking GED."

For a moment, Natasha is silent. He hears her throw her yoghurt way, and then the clink of the spoon in the sink. She's barefoot, but Bucky can hear the tacky padding of her feet on the linoleum. Finally, she leans against the far wall, just in his line of vision. Her arms are crossed, her lips are pursed. He prepares himself.

"Or," she says, "and this is just pure speculation here, _but_ …Four years from now, you could be James Rogers and be in a loving, long-term relationship with someone who values you and is capable of seeing you as more than the unsavory details of your past. And you'll be able to look back and say _wow, I'm so glad I listened to Natasha and_ didn't _let my own self-doubt get in the way of a really positive, wonderful thing_. Again, just…hypothetically."

She comes to him on the sofa, sits down next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. He leans down—and he really has to lean down _far_ , because she's tiny and he's not—and gets his head in the crook of her neck, sighs against her clavicle.

"I just can't," he whispers. "Not right now."

"I understand," Natasha whispers, "and I think Steve will too…but don't leave him hanging for too much longer, okay? He deserves that much."

"Yeah," Bucky breathes.

* * *

"So, full disclosure…there are some things you should know about the wedding," Steve sighs, and Bucky thinks this might be coming a bit too late—here they are, in the hotel room that overlooks the venue where the wedding will be held tomorrow. It's a very idyllic inn on the side of a river with weeping willows lining the banks, in a little Bavarian-inspired tourist town in upstate New York. They're both pretty travel weary, but the hotel is beautiful, and they spent the day wandering around the little town and sampled cheese at the locally famous cheese shop, then Steve went off to the rehearsal dinner while Bucky took a swim in one of the four pools at the inn. Now, in a king-sized bed that feels like a marshmallow underneath his back, Bucky opens his eyes to the almost complete darkness and tries to process what Steve had whispered into his half-asleep ear.

"Like?" he mumbles, wary. "You're not gonna tell me you've slept with one of the grooms, are you?"

"Uh, actually…"

"Oh my _God_ , you have," Bucky whispers, flipping over. He keeps his voice low, because the walls here are thin—earlier, the people in the next room were watching a movie and he could hear every single word—and they are surrounded on all sides by wedding guests. Both of the grooms have families that could, by themselves, fill some smaller football stadiums. "Which one?"

He doesn't see so much as hear Steve lick his lips and swallow. "Um…would you think less of me if I said both?"

"Oh my God. _Steve_."

"In my own defense, it was at the same time, and it was only once, and it was like eight years ago."

"Oh my _God_."

"I, uh, also slept with one of the groomsmaids. And her niece. But—but they're only two years apart. It's not weird or anything."

"At the same time?" Bucky demands, finding it hard to keep the note of schadenfreude-induced glee out of his voice.

"Uh, no. That was—those were two different times. I mean, not two, because I—I slept with both of them multiple times but. Not. Never together, no."

Bucky rolls onto his back, throws his hands over his face and bursts out laughing. He hears Steve huff next to him, but he doesn't acknowledge it—just keeps laughing as tears stream down his face, into his hair and onto the pillow. As he laughs, Steve gets out of bed, turns the light on and stands in the middle of the room, naked as the day he was born, with his arms crossed and an honest-to-God _pout_ on his face. Bucky knows this is supposed to mollify him, but it just sets him off again.

When he finally stops laughing, it's because the people next door are pounding on the adjoining wall—and Bucky has half a mind to tell them what he thinks about their taste in movies, but thinks better of it at the last moment. He wipes his eyes and draws a hand over his face, gasps to get his breathing under control. He hiccups, "Oh, God. Baby—baby, no, don't be angry. Stevie-baby, stop pouting, come here." He giggles in his chest as he holds out a hand. "C'mere, honey, come sit in my lap."

Steve doesn't stop pouting, but he comes closer, swings one of those muscular legs over Bucky's lap and sits on his thighs. Bucky sits up, tucks his face against Steve's neck, murmurs, "I'm not laughing at you, baby, I promise. I'm just…I'm relieved, honestly."

"What?" Steve mutters, hands carding down Bucky's back.

"I'm so glad you're not perfect," Bucky breathes, breath catching on a residual chuckle. He drags kisses along Steve's shoulders. "I mean, theoretically I know that nobody's perfect, but…God, you're the closest thing to it I've ever met, and I didn't know how I was supposed to deal with that, because…God. I'm just…messed up."

"I know you think that," Steve whispers. His hands trail up to Bucky's shoulders, down his biceps and then his forearms to his hands, which he presses down, down until they're on the curve of his hips. He leans back to meet Bucky's eyes. "And I know that your issues with yourself are something that you have to figure out on your own, but I just want you to know that I don't see anything wrong with you. I see your imperfections, sure, but that doesn’t mean they're all I see."

Bucky smiles, heart full. Steve shifts in his lap, a roll of his hips accompanied by a cheeky smile, and Bucky knows where this is going. Time to make the people next door pay for their piss-poor taste in action films.

Before he lets it completely overwhelm him, though, Bucky asks, "At the wedding tomorrow, what're you gonna introduce me as?"

"My plus one," Steve says against the curve of his neck, clearly somewhat confused.

"Well yeah, but…don't you think it'd be easier to introduce me as your boyfriend?"

Steve's head jerks up, eyes pulled into a look of surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah," Bucky murmurs, small smile curving onto his lips. "If you're okay with that."

"God, I…yeah, of course I am." He kisses Bucky's chin, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip. "Yes, of course. Yeah." Down his lips go, over Bucky's chest, over his stomach until he's whispering, "My boyfriend," between Bucky's legs.

"Yeah," Bucky says through a high, whimpering moan. "I'm your boy, yeah— _yeah_ —"

* * *

Sam Wilson and Riley DuBois become Sam and Riley Wilson-DuBois the next afternoon, in a beautiful ceremony by the river. Both grooms are gorgeous in their dress blues, smiling brightly like it is indeed the happiest day of their lives. Sam is tall and dark and finely built, with a broad white smile that he is very generous with. Riley is shorter and stockier, and Bucky knows that he walks with a cane even if he walked up the aisle with the assistance of Sam's arm instead, but he's painfully handsome and young and his happiness seems to spread like a glow from within himself. For every veteran for whom life is unmanageable after their injuries, Bucky hopes there are ten like Riley (Wilson-)DuBois.

At the reception, after Steve poses for God-knows-how-many pictures with the rest of the wedding party and Bucky stutters out vague answers to the question "which of the grooms are you with?", Steve squeezes his hand as he introduces him, smiling at the grooms and saying, "Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson and Riley DuBois. Oh, I mean—"

"It's okay," Riley says. He's Cajun, with a buttery accent and a husky voice that makes something swirl underneath Bucky's navel, especially now that it's aimed at him instead of to an audience of family members and friends. "He just saw the ceremony, I'm sure he knows who we are. What I want to know, Steve," he favors Steve with a tilt of his blond eyebrows, "is who this fella is to _you_."

"My boyfriend," Steve says, hand tucked against the small of Bucky's back.

"Hey, wow, that's great," Sam says, reaching out a hand to pat Steve's arm, even as he makes eye contact with Bucky. "I actually think we've met."

It takes Bucky a moment, but Sam's face swims back to him on his memory--one of the group therapists he met while on the long, winding road to recovery. Sam Wilson. He didn't even think about the name, it's common enough. He smiles and shakes Sam's hand. "Yeah, we have. Sam counselled me at the VA before I met you," he says for Steve's benefit. 

"How long've you guys been going out?" Sam asks. His hand drops right back into Riley's after Bucky lets it go.

"Um…" Steve glances at Bucky, clearly unsure what to say. There are a few answers, depending on where you're going from. If from when they met, almost six months. If from their first date, more like five. If from the point at which they first put a name to their relationship…roughly twelve hours.

"We met in February," Bucky says, finally. It's not exactly an answer that matches the question, but Sam takes it, and he and Riley wander away soon after, to greet the rest of their guests—and if they disappear for half an hour in about twenty minutes, hey. It's their wedding. Nobody's going to say anything.

"Just for the record," Bucky says, _sotto voce_ at dinner, "I totally get it now."

"Get it…?" Steve says slowly, confused as he sips of his beer.

"You sleeping with the grooms. Now that I've gotten a good look at them…yeah, I totally get it." He grins as Steve turns wide eyes onto him, a blush rising in his cheeks. When his mouth falls open, Bucky stuffs a forkful of chicken in. "Here, you wanna try some of mine?"

"Bff?!"

"Mmm, shh, don't talk with your mouth full, baby."

"Bkmm…"

* * *

Bucky follows the sound of clinking plates to the kitchen, presses up against Steve's back and slips his fingers into his pockets. Tucking his face into the back of Steve's neck, he sucks a kiss there and whispers, "Mm…hey, babydoll," and kisses again. "What're you doing?"

"Well, as you can see, I'm weaving a basket," Steve says, holding up sudsy hands. Bucky snorts against his nape and watches him dip his hands back into the dishwater, stands there silently, warm and content as Steve finishes washing them, sets them aside on the drying rack and drains the sink. He sneaks his hands down into the waistband of Steve's jeans, slips his fingers into the groove of his hips, pulls him close to better enjoy his warm solidity.

"I've been thinking," Bucky whispers.

"Oh no," Steve whispers, his hands finds Bucky's underneath his jeans. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"Wow, Rogers. I've never heard that one before, that was super original. Kudos to you."

"Jerk."

"No, really. Very classy." He presses himself against Steve's back, listens to the pleased noise Steve releases, brushes another kiss over the nape of his neck. "I was thinking that Natasha is planning on moving out, and the apartment we share is small and not in a really good location, so…when the leasing period is over, I might just…let it lapse, find somewhere else to live. Somewhere closer to where I work, closer to you."

Steve chuckles, "Somewhere closer to me, huh? Like, in the same bed?"

"Maybe," Bucky mumbles against his neck, tracing the hard joint of his thumbs over Steve's hipbones. "Would that be something…you might like? I mean, it couldn't hurt to have someone else to help pay the bills, right? I've got a paycheck. It's shit, but it's a paycheck, and it can only help."

"Babe," Steve sighs, turning around. Bucky takes his hands out of his waistband, moves them to his waist and hikes up his shirt. "Of course I'd like you to move in with me. I'd want you to move in with me even if you didn't have a paycheck. In fact, can you…okay, I'd love for you to move in with me either way, but can you do something for me?"

"Anything," Bucky says, unthinking of the power that statement gives Steve. The last thing Steve would do would be to take advantage of him. Bucky thinks he know Steve well enough to realize that by now.

"When your lease is up and you move in with me, quit your job. I'll be fine floating us until you can get a job that doesn't make you feel like shit."

Bucky grins, pulls himself up closer to Steve, balances himself on the balls of his feet until he's at the exact same height as Steve and presses their mouths together. "You sure you don't just want me to be your kept man? Keep me barefoot in the kitchen?"

"You're such a jerk," Steve growls into his mouth. His hands are big and warm on Bucky's ass. "But I guess I love you."

Smiling into his mouth, Bucky whispers, "I love you too. Punk."

* * *

"Do you realize what a _colossal asshole_ you're being?"

"Why me? Why is it always me that's being the asshole, huh? _Bucky, you're being an asshole_. Well guess what, Mr. Perfect? We can't all be like _you!_ I can't have good day after good day after good fucking day, Steve! Sometimes, it's all I can do to get out of fucking bed, and I'm fucking sorry, but I'm not up to dealing with Riley's _douchebag_ of a brother."

"Adam is—he's troubled, Buck. You have no right to call him a—"

"Adam is a fucking douchebag, Steve. I've said it once and I'll say it again. He's a complete and utter _prick_. He got drunk at their wedding. Not fun-drunk. _FUBAR drunk_. And okay, I'm willing to accept that those things happen, bad first impression, whatever. But he's done literally nothing to improve that impression of him, and every time I see the guy he has to make some backhanded comment about…the military or some shit. I don't feel like putting myself in a situation where I have to be nice and polite to a guy who apparently feels no obligation to return the favor. Not today."

"So what am I supposed to say?" Bucky watches from the kitchen archway as Steve takes out his frustrations on a pot of potatoes, mashing them like they are the ones who have personally wronged him. "Sorry, Bucky isn't coming to Thanksgiving, he's decided that being social is below him."

"Fuck you!" Bucky yells. "Do you have any idea what it's like?"

"Oh _boy_!" Steve crows, throwing the potato masher on the counter. It breaks a glass jar that Bucky left there last night, spreading glass into the sink and onto the floor. "Here we go again! _You don't know what it's like, you were never overseas, you can't possibly understand how I feel_. Well thanks, Buck, for shoving it in my face. Again. It feels really great, y'know, to be told by my boyfriend that I can't _possibly_ empathize with his situation." He turns around, sees the broken glass in the sink, and swears, "Fuck! That's…wow, look at that. That's amazing." He gestures to the sink, mouth curved in an exaggerated approximation of a smile. "That's just…great, look at all the broken glass next to where I'm making food. Wonderful. Screwing _fuck_." He runs his hands down his face, groans loudly, walks over to the kitchen table and picks up his phone.

"Who are you calling?" Bucky demands, walking through the kitchen to stand behind him.

"Sam, I'm gonna tell him I—Bucky, you're fucking _barefoot_."

"I don't give a shit. Why are you calling Sam?"

"Because I—I can't go now, can I? There's glass in the mashed potatoes and you don't want to go and it's already four o'clock."

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair—it's long now, and usually he keeps it tied back in a knot at the crown of his head, but they've been arguing since he got out of the shower, and all he did was put on underwear and a tee since then.

"Just…if you're going to mope all night, just go. I don't wanna deal with it."

"No, I'm not gonna leave you alone if you're having a bad day, okay?" He taps on his phone screen, but before he calls he sets it down against and looks down at Bucky's feet again. "Baby, please. Put on some fucking shoes, I don't know if there's any glass on the floor."

With a huff, Bucky stomps back across the kitchen to the entryway to get his sneakers. Near the door, his heel comes straight down a shard of liquid pain that shoots up the back of his calf. He swears loudly, not even thinking about it, loses his balance and slumps against the doorway.

Steve appears in the doorway, face anxious. He sees the blood dribbling off of Bucky's foot and onto the floor, hurries to his side and helps him balance. "Buck, I told you to put on some shoes—"

"I have to walk across the kitchen to get my fucking shoes, don't I?" Bucky snaps. "It's your fault anyway, for throwing that fucking— _ow_! You asshole, don't fucking touch it."

"I have to—to get the glass out. C'mere." Steve gets him under the arm, helps him into the bathroom where he lowers him onto the toilet seat lid, sits down on the rim of the tub opposite and reaches under the sink to pull out the first aid kit. Bucky watches him pull out tweezers and peroxide wipes, holds his foot in the air until Steve turns to him, holds out a hand and murmurs, "Here, let me see."

Bucky places his foot unhesitatingly in Steve's lap—they may be fighting, but he trusts Steve implicitly—and watches him pick the glass out of his foot, hissing once or twice when a particularly stubborn piece doesn't want to go without a fight. When he does, Steve mumbles out placation, soothes his thumb over his ankle.

"I'm sorry," he whispers eventually. "I know I…I can't understand what you're going through. And I'm sorry about my temper."

Bucky snorts. "Baby, you're not the first person to throw something when they get upset."

"Still though, you got hurt and—"

"I walked across the kitchen in bare feet. It's okay. That's my bad. It's not like you threw it _at_ me."

"No, I would never—"

"Exactly." Bucky sighs and shifts his foot in Steve's lap, gives him better access to put a large bandage on his heel. "Had a foster dad once. When things pissed him off, he'd—he'd take it out on us, throw his beer bottles at our heads. I, uh, I didn't live with him for a long time, and I was real young," so young that he isn't quite sure he has the details right in his memory; so young that the man may not have been a foster dad at all, but his biological dad. He can't remember what the guy looked like anymore. "But…y'know, I know what a real temper is. And I know you, I know you're sitting here thinking that you're the worst kinda scum for raising your voice to me, or something, but you're not. Everyone argues. And sometimes, people throw things when they argue."

Steve hums in the kind of way that says he isn't so sure he agrees with what Bucky is saying, but he isn't going to be a pest about it. Bucky takes his foot out of Steve's lap and replaces it with all of himself, looping his arms around Steve's neck.

"Call Sam, tell him we'll be a little late. I'll go down the street and buy another sack of potatoes."

"You just ripped your foot open."

Bucky shrugs. "I've walked miles on a lot worse."

"No, I…I don't want you to do that. Let me call Sam, tell him what happened."

"That we got in an argument?"

"No, that you're not having a good day and you stepped on some glass and I don't think we're gonna make it. He'll understand. He works with veterans for a living, and you shoulda seen Riley when he first got back from overseas. He had a lot more bad days than you, at first."

"Riley? Really?"

"Yeah. Ask him about it, he'll tell you. He used to, uh, lock himself in the bathroom for days, forget to eat, stuff like that."

"Huh. I guess I always thought he was…y'know, one of those guys that shit just bounces off of."

"I think you and I both know that guys like those are an urban legend."

"Hmm," sighs Bucky against his neck. "When I first got back, I used to…sit on the floor of my closet, back at the place I shared with Nat, close the door. Something about it made me feel safe. I had to keep telling myself _You're okay, you're home, you're safe_ , and half the time I wouldn't even believe myself. I'd only really just gotten my head straight on my shoulders when I met you. Everything still goes sideways, sometimes."

"I know, baby," Steve whispers.

"Guess that doesn't excuse being an asshole though, does it?"

"Eh…not really. But you're my asshole, so I guess it's okay."

"I'm housetrained and everything."

Steve pulls away and barks out a laugh, sucks a kiss onto the hollow of his neck.

They eat a microwave mac n' cheese casserole for Thanksgiving dinner and go have a sans-Adam belated dinner with Sam and Riley the next weekend.

* * *

Sam and Riley moved out to the New Jersey suburbs in January, and it's weird that they're no longer a twenty-minute subway ride away. But they see them often enough, and they now have a really nice backyard, which isn't a thing you can have in the city and which is a really nice place for a fourth of July barbeque. Bucky makes Steve wear a red, white and blue birthday hat, and laughs uproariously every time he looks at him for the ninety minute drive to Riley and Sam's house. He sends Riley, Sam and Natasha all different snapchats of Steve pretending that he can't hear Bucky cackling behind the camera, staring hard through the windshield as the point of the party hat scrapes the roof of the car with every bump of the road.

Riley opens the door when they arrive, and he's holding up his phone to the snap Bucky sent him. Bucky can hear his own manic laughter over the tinny speaker in Riley's ancient smart phone. With a raised eyebrow, Riley asks, "Are you drunk already?"

Bucky stuffs a fist in his mouth and shakes his head, eyes watering as he tries not to laugh.

"He didn't get to spend my birthday with me last year, and he's just enjoying himself way too much this year," Steve sighs, rolling his eyes as he removes the party hat. He hugs Riley, pats his back. "Hey, how are you?"

"I'm great," Riley says, and then, "Do you have the stuff?"

Bucky holds up the refrigerator bag; an enormous bowl of potato salad, a tupperware container of Steve's special recipe for barbeque sauce, and another container of raspberry vinaigrette that Natasha taught Bucky to make years ago.

Then Steve says, "Yup," and walks into the house.

"Awesome, potato salad," Riley says, taking the bowl. Balancing it on his hip like a child, he raises that eyebrow at Bucky again. "And you? Do you have the thing we talked about?"

"I do," Bucky says, patting his pocket. Riley gives his approval with a wiggle of his eyebrows and wanders off. Bucky follows Steve into the house, grabs a beer from the cooler that's propping open the sliding glass door to the patio, greets people along the way and then settles in next to Steve in the garden. There are a lot of people here, some of which are family and friends but a lot of whom are Sam and Riley's neighbors or coworkers. Those who know come and wish Steve a happy birthday, but they're in the minority and that's okay. If they wanted something more intimate or private, they would have gone to have dinner instead of showing up at a barbeque. Steve takes having his birthday on a national holiday with a lot of grace, which is something Bucky admires about him. He still makes him put the hat back on, though.

The day wears on until dusk, when it's just the closest family and friends left. Sam's sisters and their kids, Riley's mom—Eileen; Bucky imprinted on her like a duckling the first time he met her, and now every time he sees her, she gives him no less than four recipes—and a few others, like Riley's cousin Jacque, who likes to pretend he can't speak English and who's real fun when you get enough alcohol in him. He and Steve and about half a dozen others—including Peggy and her fiancé Gabe, who now sit in the bench swing on the far end of the porch, lazily swaying back and forth together—apparently went to college together while Riley and Sam were in the Air Force. They called themselves the Howling Commandos for some ambiguous reason that Bucky has not thought to ask for.

These people are Steve's family. None of them are related to him by blood, and it's obvious—they're mostly Sam's blood relations, because Riley's people are still predominantly in Louisiana, and nobody would look at Steve's pale Irish skin and think he was in any way related to the Wilsons by blood—but that doesn't matter. It couldn't be more clear that he was in the midst of Steve's family if he was surrounded by two dozen blond-haired blue-eyed people named Rogers.

Just as the lightening bugs are emerging, Sam disappears into the kitchen and returns with a sheet cake with sparklers stuck into the corners. Of course, this was planned and known about by everyone except for Steve, and they're all singing before he even gets the cake on the table. Steve laughs and goes a little pink around the ears, and Bucky squeezes his thigh as Steve tries to hide his face in Bucky's hair.

"Were the sparklers necessary?" he laughs after he's blown them, and the little _31_ candle in the middle of the cake out.

"Yes," Sam says gravely. "Absolutely, entirely necessary."

"Did you know I called him Captain America when we first started dating?" Bucky chuckles.

"Because of my birthday?" Steve inquires, standing up to take a knife from Riley and start cutting the cake.

"No, baby, because of all of you." Bucky laughs at the look Steve shoots over his shoulder, and he's the very last one to get a slice of cake because of that comment, but he doesn't care. There is a fluttery nervousness in his stomach that's been growing since they walked in the door of Riley and Sam's house this afternoon, and it's come to such a head that he only takes a few bites of cake.

Steve notices, leans across the arm of his lawn chair to meet Bucky's eyes. He murmurs, "You okay?" and balances his cake on his knee.

"What? Oh, yeah. I'm great." When he sees that Steve has an empty plate, he looks over to Riley, meets his eyes, asks, "Present time?"

"Present time," Riley confirms.

"Guys," Steve says, lightly admonishing tone in his voice, "You did not get me presents. You just bought a house! And you two," he gestures vaguely to Peggy and Gabe, "You're getting married next year, don't pretend you have money to waste on me."

"Relax," Bucky soothes, bringing Steve's present out of his pocket and setting it in Steve's lap. It's small and wrapped in plain blue paper, and everyone is staring because Steve is the only one who doesn't know what's inside the box. Even the kids have gone quiet, pausing in their frolicking in the yard to focus their gaze on the circle of adults on the patio. "Here, open that."

Steve does so, face not giving away whether he know what's happening or not. Not even when he finds the ring box underneath the wrapping paper and opens it. Inside, pressed into the lid, is a small rose bloom. On a slip of paper: _What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet._

"It, uh, took me a long time to figure out what to call you," Bucky says slowly, fiddling with the ring still in his palm. "Uh, I was afraid to call you…my boyfriend, at first, because…well, part of me figured that…we weren't that serious, or a guy like me didn't really deserve to call a guy like you my boyfriend. So it took awhile. I called you thinks like…a guy I know, or this guy I'm seeing, or…my Steve," they both laugh, because they know exactly which situation he's talking about. "But I realized that, y'know, what we called each other really didn't matter. We were us, we were together. If I had to put a name to what we are…I guess I would say something like, love of my life, or…gee, I dunno. You're my friend, you're my _best friend_ , and I'm not good at these kinda things, but I wanted to say this in front of your family because I want them to know that I'm in this for the long haul, 'til the end of the line. And there's a word, for people who promise that to each other. A ceremony, too, if you're willin' to go through with it."

"You askin' me to be your husband, Barnes?" Steve asks, and his voice is almost completely steady—but he hasn't looked away from the ring box, and the corners of his eyes are suspiciously wet.

"Only if you want to," Bucky says, and holds out the ring. It's simple, a thick silver band with four tiny diamonds in a square set into the band itself.

"I…yes, of course. God, yes. Of course I'll marry you." He holds out his left hand and swipes at his eyes with the right, turns his face away from everyone else. "God, don't—don't look at me—"

There's a small titter of relieved laughter—not that anyone thought Steve would say no, but proposals are tense things in general—and Sam quickly and quietly corrals everyone into the kitchen under the guise of coffee. Bucky slides the ring onto his finger and brushes a kiss over his knuckles, murmurs, "My husband."

"Not yet," Steve chuckles. "Fiancé."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." He pulls on Steve's arm until Steve comes out of his lawn chair and sits in Bucky's lap. He presses slow kisses to Steve's neck, jaw, cheeks. "Happy birthday, baby."

They break the chair. Steve tries to pay Sam and Riley to replace it, but they're too busy laughing at them to take the money.

Two years later, James and Steve Rogers buy their first house together. Natasha sends Bucky a snapchat, just her face, with the words _I told you so_. Bucky rolls his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is a lot less serious than most of my other fics, but i needed a little reprieve after writing two multichapter stories in a row. Unfortunately, I have yet to write a fic under 8000 words for Captain America, a pattern which doesn't seem inclined to break any time soon. |D  
> I hope you enjoyed this, even if it was kind of silly. If you're so inclined, I have one of those newfangled blog things on the tumblr dot com. It's under the same username and is mostly me crying about fictional characters. If that's your thing, come say hi.  
> Also, here's the list of what the name in each segment was, if you weren't able to pick all of them up:  
> 1.) 'A guy I met at the gym'  
> 2.) Captain America/Human Torch  
> 3.) Steve/My Steve  
> 4.) Nasty sex things, specifically: whore  
> 5.) 'A guy I'm seeing'  
> 6.) Plus one  
> 7.) Boyfriend  
> 8.) Babydoll OR Jerk/Punk (I couldn't pick)  
> 9.) Asshole  
> 10.) Fiance


End file.
